


A Felicitous Natal Celebration

by sgam76



Series: A Felicitous Natal Celebration [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asperger's Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock, BAMF Mycroft, Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Compliant, Espionage, Gen, Harm to Children, Hypersensitivity, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Mummy is MI6, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft saves the day, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Period Typical Attitudes, Protective Mycroft, Sign Language, Toddler Sherlock, Why Sherlock never takes the Tube, threats to children (not graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Mycroft's 12th birthday. Mummy has promised him a spectacular present, and he can't wait. All he has to do is meet Sherlock and Sherlock's nanny and head home. But first, he has to deal with abandonment, a mugging, the Tube, and espionage. </p>
<p>Before Mycroft was the British Government, but not before he was responsible for saving the day...</p>
<p>NOTE: Now part of a series of Birthday Adventures, set across the boys' lives and occurring on the birthday of one or the other. They will not be in chronological order, but rather based on whichever plot bunny nibbles on my toes next.</p>
<p>03/17--Edited to add reference to Eurus, though in an admittedly minimalist kind of way. Just as a reminder, I'm of the school that believes Eurus is the "middle child" John refers to, which makes Sherlock still The Baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Felicitous Natal Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> This fits into my head-canon that Sherlock was medically fragile as a very young child (which explains why he's just a wee bit spoiled--or "indulged", as Mark Gatiss once put it). I'm not sure if the use of sign language is in common use for children on the autism spectrum, but fits with what I observed with family friends who had a daughter with Asperger's. She wasn't verbal until she was about 10, but started signing at age 3. I've also often seen families refer to the youngest as "The Baby" long after the child in question really wasn't quite a baby anymore. It's a hard habit to break.
> 
> One additional note--while this period (the mid-80s, since I use the 1980-1981 range for Sherlock's birthdate) isn't pre-computers, they were still something of a novelty, used more in business than in private homes. And this was also very much pre-mobile/cellular phones, so Mycroft can't simply whip out his iPhone and ask for help.

This was going to be his best birthday ever. Of course, there were a few minor annoyances to deal with first—having to do primarily with The Baby—but those were minor and could be quickly dealt with. And then, oh then, the glorious access to Mummy’s secure cryptography drive, complete with _three_ custom-written puzzles to solve. Mycroft had been looking forward to this for two weeks, ever since Mummy had announced that, now that he was to be 12, he could be trusted to use the highly-secret computer drives and tools on a very limited basis. Mycroft knew that he would never be the theoretical mathematician that Mummy was, but he (and Mummy, apparently) suspected that he might well outstrip her in pure cryptography one day.

He strode around the corner of Harley Street, walking briskly but not visibly hurrying. Mycroft was painfully aware of his physical shortcomings: he was very tall for his age, he had glowing red hair (and a face to match, if he became overheated), and a lingering chubbiness that had yet to completely succumb to his rapid growth rate. It was quite warm for late April, and he had no intention of getting himself flushed. He had suffered through too many episodes of teasing from other children in the past for being the “sweaty fat kid”—he no longer took any chances that he might appear so. He might never be attractive, but he could at least be _dignified_.

The plan was very simple. He was to meet up with Sherlock, and Sherlock’s nanny, at the ophthalmologist’s office. Like many former premature infants, The Baby had lingering eye issues that required regular checkups. Neither Mummy nor Daddy had been available for this visit (Mummy’s seminar would keep her tied up until dinner, and Daddy was on an emergency diplomatic mission to Uganda), but they hadn’t wanted Sherlock to miss his appointment and the physician had a very tight schedule. So Eleanor had been delegated to make this trip, under very strict instructions to record everything for later review. Mycroft was to meet them after finishing his piano lesson two streets away, and then Eleanor would drive them all home. Fortunately, they didn't have to worry about Eurus as well--she, lucky girl, was spending the week with Grandmere, who was very fond of her namesake (Amelie Eurus Vernet Holmes).

He pushed open the gleaming carved door into the specialist’s office, expecting to see Eleanor sitting with Sherlock in the waiting area. He was perhaps ten minutes past the time the examination usually finished, so it was odd to see the room empty but for an elderly woman and a bored teenager. He felt a moment’s disquiet—perhaps the doctor had found some sort of problem? Had The Baby had a meltdown from the forced touch of the doctor? He forced down his concern and approached the receptionist’s cubicle, clearing his throat politely to capture her attention. “Pardon me,” he said in his most adult tones, “I’m Mycroft Holmes. I’m supposed to meet Eleanor Masters and my brother. Are they finished with the doctor?” The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with improbably black hair, gave a gasp of relief that had Mycroft’s anxiety returning. “Oh, thank goodness!” she breathed. “Your nanny stepped out a half-hour ago, and hasn’t come back. We tried all of our contact telephone numbers and no one answered. We weren’t sure what to do—he was becoming very frightened, poor mite.” She bustled around the corner of her cubicle and ushered him through to the treatment rooms, stopping at a closed office door and tapping quickly. At a subdued “come in” from the other side, she opened the door and gestured Mycroft inside.

The opulent office was warm and quiet. Someone had wisely dimmed the lights—the office staff were, thankfully, familiar with Sherlock’s hypersensitivity, which was particularly evident in times of stress. Dr. Godwin sat in a comfortable wingchair by a stone fireplace, speaking softly in deference to the tiny figure huddled in the far corner of the room. “Come in, Mycroft. He had a bit of a spell when Ms. Masters didn’t return, but I’m sure he’ll be fine now you’re here.” Mycroft’s heart sank. Sherlock had yet to acknowledge his presence, and was gently rocking, something he only did these days when extremely upset. When Mycroft walked over and knelt in front of him, though, he abruptly stopped and launched himself bodily at his brother, clinging frantically. Mycroft grasped the little body and placed him on one hip as he stood, and Sherlock’s arms and legs snaked tightly around his shoulders and waist respectively. His head tucked deeply into the crook of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft could feel panting breaths warming his collarbone.

He wasted no time trying to calm his brother immediately—Sherlock fared better if allowed to process things gradually. He turned instead to Dr. Godwin, now standing nearby, and again put on his most adult manner. “Thank you for keeping him safe. Have you tried both of my parents’ office numbers? And the townhouse?” Dr. Godwin nodded. “Yes. Got answering machines all around. The nanny had a phone call come into our receptionist while I was examining Sherlock, and said she had to leave but would be right back. But after twenty minutes all of us became a little concerned, especially after the little one started to fret.” He reached out and gently fondled Sherlock’s curls, then looked back to Mycroft. “Do you have a way home, then? If you’d like, you can wait a half hour or so and I’ll give you a ride myself.” Mycroft made a mental note to ask Mummy to write a thank-you note to the doctor at her earliest convenience. Right after she sacked Eleanor. “Thank you, but no. I have money for a cab—I think it’s best that I take Sherlock straight home.” It was already half-four, and Mummy should be home by seven at the latest. And then his favorite dinner, and _then_ the database!

Dr. Godwin smiled. “All right then—I suppose a big boy like you can manage on your own. For my sake, though, please give us a call and leave a message to let us know you got home safe. Wouldn’t like to explain otherwise to your mum, you know!” He waggled his eyebrows—Mummy could be terrifying, and Dr. Godwin had seen just a touch of that once, when an inexperienced office assistant had referred to Sherlock as “handicapped” in her presence.

In short order, Mycroft had collected Sherlock’s light jacket and tiny rucksack, and headed out onto the busy late-afternoon street. He had managed to convince Sherlock to walk rather than be carried, though The Baby kept a death-grip on the back of Mycroft’s blazer. Mycroft decided to walk a couple of streets before hailing a cab. It allowed them to walk past Sherlock’s favorite shop, one with an animated display of dinosaurs rambling across the windows, and also put them on a much busier thoroughfare. Mycroft had no desire to spend ten minutes here with his hand in the air, waving at a limited number of cabs, all of whom stopped for adults more readily than children.

In retrospect, that decision was inexcusable. But at the time, it had seemed so very minor.

To get to that busier street, Mycroft took a shortcut he often used to get to the Tube station when coming home from his piano lesson. He didn’t consider, though, that taking an alleyway in broad daylight was a rather different affair than doing so in approaching twilight, with a very young child in tow to distract him. And he was actively trying to engage that young child in a sort of conversation, so he was very much not focused on their surroundings.

The Baby actually noticed first. He stopped abruptly, jerking away from Mycroft and darting behind a large metal rubbish skip. Mycroft gave an exasperated huff and started to follow when he became aware of two other people in the alleyway with them. He had already started to give the newcomers a polite nod and simultaneous dismissal while he ferreted Sherlock out from behind the skip, when he noted with alarm that the two men (for they were men, somewhat feral in appearance) had separated to flank him. His martial arts training informed him that this was clearly an aggressive move, and he quickly slid sideways to block access to The Baby’s hiding place. Following Daddy’s instructions, he held himself up to look as tall, threatening and mature as possible, while making no overt movements towards the men. He gave the men a comprehensive once-over as he edged further back against the side of the skip. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he said, in a firm but commanding tone. His left hand, hidden behind his back, moved in a defined pattern that he hoped Sherlock would see.

The older of the two men, about 35, six foot, dirty brown hair and broken teeth, chuckled. “’Spect you can, sonny. Imagine a posh little bugger like you must have a tidy bit of pocket money, doncha? And that’s a really choice watch on your arm there.” Mycroft said nothing, carefully watching this man’s eyes while also tracking the slow, steady movement of his partner. Younger, perhaps 20, quite short, dishwater blond hair and filthy red trousers. Dirty Hair jerked his chin at Red Trousers, and the younger man snaked forward a hand and grabbed Mycroft’s blazer, hauling him bodily away from Sherlock’s hiding place. Mycroft fought the urge to struggle prematurely—he was fairly sure he could take this lighter, smaller individual if he waited for the right opening. But he knew he couldn’t tackle two grown men, especially given the little liability hiding nearby.

Unfortunately, Dirty Hair then did the unexpected. Rather than focusing on Mycroft, he moved quickly over behind Mycroft and his captor and grabbed The Baby by his twig-like arm, dragging him not very gently out from behind the skip. Sherlock went mad. Kicked, bit, flailed his arms, all while emitting a wordless wail of panic that pierced Mycroft to the core. Mycroft, without a moment’s thought, roughly broke Red Trousers’ grip on his jacket, stomped down hard on his instep and kicked him solidly in the groin, then spun back towards Dirty Hair while Red Trousers retched on the ground behind them. He moved towards Dirty Hair but froze as the man grabbed a solid handful of Sherlock’s curls and yanked his head painfully to the side. Sherlock went still, like a terrified rabbit eying a predator. “Oooh,” crooned Dirty Hair. “You’re a _feisty_ little bugger, aincha?” He glanced over at Red Trousers, still writhing on the pavement. “Alright, Reg?” Another bout of retching was his only response. He tsked in annoyance. “Useless. Just useless.” He shifted his grip on The Baby, who stayed worryingly motionless, now looking only at the ground. Dirty Hair gave the little figure a light shake, and tsked again at the lack of response. He looked at Mycroft with a considering eye. “Not quite right, is he? Can he talk?” Mycroft shook his head, maintaining eye contact with the man and willing him silently not to hurt Sherlock.

“Well that’s nice, innit?” rumbled Dirty Hair. “Taking care of him anyway.” Mycroft flushed at the implication but still kept silent. A sly look came over the man’s face. “It don’t really matter, I suppose. Looks like we can make a deal, anyway.” He stared at Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft realized that he needed to bring this scene to a safe conclusion before Red Trousers— _Reg_ —was back in action. “What deal?” he snapped.

The dirty man gave a lazy smile. “You’re going to give us every bit of coin you have on you, and that watch as well. Then you’re going to take the little ‘un here back behind that skip and count to 500, slow-like, before you come out.” He looked at the trembling mite in his arms. “I really wouldn’t hurt ‘im, you know—don’t hold with it.” He gave a sharkish grin and flipped open his jacket to show the hilt of a large knife in his waistband. “But I’d hurt _you_ , Sonny Jim. And he’d have to watch, now wouldn’t he?” Mycroft folded. There was nothing for it. He wordlessly emptied out his pockets, holding out his wallet and a handful of change and turning the pockets inside out to demonstrate that this was everything. But as Dirty Hair reached for it, Mycroft quickly stepped back a bit. “Give me my brother first. Then I’ll give you this and take off the watch.” And, oh God, he hated giving up Grandpapa’s watch. Mummy had had a new leather strap special-made for it and given it to him for Christmas.

Dirty Hair chuckled a bit but acquiesced. He set Sherlock down as he reached for the wallet, and the wispy little boy scuttled over and grabbed Mycroft around both knees, hiding behind his legs. Mycroft ignored him, focusing his attention on their two attackers, making sure Reg was staying on the ground. He carefully tossed over the wallet, then reluctantly opened his watchband and handed the watch and the remaining change over as well. Dirty Hair shoved everything in his grimy jacket pockets, then snaked out a hand and cuffed Mycroft hard on the back of the head. “There,” he rasped. “That’s for Reg. Be glad it’s me and not him—he’s a mean little bastard.” He grinned, moved over and dragged Reg up with one arm, then pointed the other hand commandingly to the gap by the skip. “To 500, right slow. And remember, no telling the coppers—I know what you look like.”

Mycroft picked up Sherlock and moved obediently behind the skip, while reflecting on the monumental stupidity of his attackers. Yes, they knew what he looked like—one child in a city of millions. His wallet contained no identifying information—he had slipped his school badge out of his trouser pocket and into his pants while Dirty Hair was looking at Reg. Conversely (and this he thought of with considerable pleasure) Mycroft had an eidetic memory and was an excellent artist. By day’s end today, he would have produced creditable drawings of both men, given them to Mummy, and Mummy would give them to one of her old friends at MI6, who would, no doubt, make rather permanent arrangements for the thieves.

While he started counted slowly (he would stop at 300—no point in pushing things by not counting at all if Dirty Hair lingered, unlikely though that seemed) he set Sherlock down and dug in his little rucksack for Mr. Bumble, handing off the puffy stuffed bee to his shivering baby brother. While he counted, Mycroft pondered their situation. He could, of course, go into the nearest shop and ask for help. Someone would call the police, and he and The Baby would be escorted home as soon as Mummy was available. The more he considered, however, the more hesitant he was to take that approach. When Mycroft turned 10, Daddy had taken him aside and had a longish conversation about what being a member of a prominent (in intelligence and diplomatic circles, anyway) family meant. Part of that conversation included the fact that the Holmes children would be considered high-value targets for criminals or terrorists. While Mycroft didn’t _think_ today’s incidents were related—Eleanor’s mysterious departure, followed by a mugging—Daddy had also emphasized that true coincidences were really quite rare. It was certainly possible that these two adverse events just happened to occur on the same day. But he felt he would be criminally negligent to assume so, and ultimately decided that making their own way home was the wisest choice.

He spun Sherlock around (while the toddler made a disgruntled noise) and dug in the bottom of the rucksack once again. He pulled out several pound coins with a quiet crow of delight. Mummy almost always allowed Eleanor to buy Sherlock sweeties or ice cream after trips out of the house, and usually gave Sherlock the task of carrying the money. Of course, now the only difficulty would be explaining to Sherlock why there would be no treat today (which really seemed spectacularly unfair, under the circumstances). He turned Sherlock back round, grabbed one slightly grubby hand, and placed his own hand briefly on the back of Sherlock’s head to direct his attention where he needed it. Then he began to sign, slowly and carefully, watching closely to make sure Sherlock’s eyes stayed on his hands. He had learned sign language and then started to teach The Baby three months ago, when Sherlock turned 4 and was still not talking (though both his doctor and the Holmes family were sure that would come soon). Sherlock had absorbed the language like a sponge—he could now communicate quickly, without ever having to make the full eye contact he still found difficult. His eyes were now riveted to Mycroft’s moving fingers.

“ _We have to go home. Eleanor’s not coming with us. We get to take the Tube!_ ” For the last, he added their own personal sign for “exciting”. Sherlock had never been on the Tube, though he asked to go every time he left the house. He had seen a documentary on the telly about the history of the system, and was fascinated. Mummy had been doubtful, but had dutifully asked Sherlock’s doctor if this was workable. The horrified expression on the woman’s face had been its own answer. The Tube and a hypersensitive, mildly autistic child was not a match made in Heaven, but Mycroft had no choice—it was much too far to walk to either parent’s office, and the townhouse was even further. But the money available wouldn’t stretch to a cab, so…

Sherlock was beside himself with joy, even flicking his eyes up briefly to meet Mycroft’s with an ecstatic grin. He tucked Mr. Bumble under one arm and reached out imperiously for Mycroft’s hand with the other, ready for his long-awaited adventure.

That effervescent happiness didn’t last very long, sadly. The Tube station was one street away, and Sherlock bounced along on his toes almost all the way there. As soon as they entered the station and started down the escalator, though, things changed. Sherlock visibly flinched at the onslaught of garish fluorescent lighting, and cowered against Mycroft’s side as the ambient noise level rose. By the time they bought tickets and reached the train platform he was pressed tightly under Mycroft’s arm, his face buried in Mr. Bumble’s soft yellow and black fur. It only grew worse once they entered the carriage. Mycroft had placed Sherlock on his hip once they boarded out of sheer necessity—the press of humanity was such that the tiny boy risked being trampled otherwise. The closing doors startled Sherlock badly, and the whoosh of the train rattling along the track had him trembling.

By the first stop, Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably, so Mycroft bundled him against his chest under his school blazer and covered Sherlock’s exposed ear with one hand. By the third, they had to hustle quickly off the train, and Mycroft held Sherlock over a bin as he vomited and sobbed.

At that point Mycroft conceded defeat. He carried Sherlock into the loo and cleaned him up as best he could, then wrapped him and Mr. Bumble closely in the blazer, completely covering his head, before picking him up again. They rode up the escalator to the surface, and Mycroft stood against a side wall, rocking gently and patting Sherlock’s back until he calmed a bit. One little hand snaked out from under the blazer and shakily signed “ _home_ ”. 

Mycroft filtered through his mental London map and placed their current location in reference to all possible options: Mummy’s office, Daddy’s office, or the townhouse. While Mummy’s would have been the first choice—she might well come back there before heading home—at roughly 3 miles away, it was just too far. He couldn’t carry Sherlock for more than an hour, light though he was in relative terms. The townhouse, at twice that distance, was obviously out, which left Daddy’s office the only logical destination. Still 1.3 miles—far, but manageable. They could use the phone there and try to catch Mummy before she left, or failing that, get a ride home from one of Daddy’s assistants. As long as they arrived by 6 there would still be plenty of people in the office.

It took far too long. Sherlock, exhausted by his traumatic day, went boneless and slept within 5 minutes. While Mycroft was intensely glad that The Baby could finally relax, it nonetheless made him harder to carry as Sherlock no longer held on. They attracted occasional worried looks from motherly types, but Mycroft forestalled intervention via a confident air and an unconcerned smile or two.

Finally, when just under an hour had passed, they reached Daddy’s offices. Mycroft’s arms ached, his feet hurt, and he was hideously thirsty. He stopped just outside the doors and gently shook Sherlock to rouse him, lifting off the blazer and setting Sherlock down on a stone pediment at the edge of the steps to the main building. While Sherlock blinked, yawned and rubbed his eyes, Mycroft surreptitiously fished his hand into his pants and pulled out his school badge he’d hidden during the mugging—he would need it to show the guard at the entrance, if it wasn’t one of the guards who already knew him from previous visits.

Wilfred, the guard at the security gates just inside the glass doors, was familiar with both children, thankfully, though perplexed as to why they were showing up unescorted. “We’re meeting my mother here,” Mycroft said breezily. “It was easier than going home separately. Can we wait in my father’s office? I’d like to give Mummy’s office a quick call to let her know we’re here.” Wilfred hesitated. It really wasn’t allowed, civilians wandering about alone—they would normally have to wait here in the lobby. Mycroft read his intentions and quickly jumped in. “I really need to get The Baby somewhere quiet—he was sick on the Tube.” That had the advantage of being somewhat true, and verifiable through the stains on Sherlock’s blue dinosaur t-shirt. Wilfred’s face softened. “Oh, all right—you can lay the little tyke on the couch in the tearoom if you’d like. I’ll let your mum know where you are when she gets here.” He reached in his drawer and pulled out a visitor’s badge on a lanyard, and Mycroft gratefully pulled it over his head.

Sherlock had perked up a bit at being in one of his favorite places. While he didn’t like the number of people that normally frequented the office, he adored the huge fish tank (complete with live lobster) in Daddy’s office, as well as the comfortable leather chair that spun and rocked. He shoved Mr. Bumble under his arm and signed his happiness to see the fish to Mycroft, the first words he’d volunteered since they left the Tube station.

After stopping briefly in the tearoom to let them both down large glasses of cold water, Mycroft walked back down the hall towards the office, signing to Sherlock as they went. _“I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait. We might ride home with Brindle, if he didn’t go to Uganda with Daddy.”_ Brindle was Daddy’s long-term aide; it was never clear if Brindle was his first name, last name, or nickname. Mycroft liked him; he didn’t talk down to children.

Sherlock trotted ahead when they entered the last corridor. He was anxious to see the fish. Mycroft hurried to catch up, and swung open Daddy’s door just before Sherlock reached it (since Sherlock’s initial arrival usually lead to kicking the door otherwise—he knew he wasn’t strong enough to open it on his own). Sherlock came to such an abrupt halt just inside the door that Mycroft literally stumbled over him, barely avoiding a tumble to the carpet. A quick glance assured him that Sherlock was unharmed, but was edging away from a strange man standing just to the right of the door. Another man was sitting at the desk, using Daddy’s new computer system. And Mycroft, on recognizing that man, knew that he had no valid reason to be here, and even less to be using Daddy’s system for anything. Mycroft’s first lightning thought was to try and pretend he didn’t recognize either man, and get his baby brother safely out of the room before raising the alarm with Wilfred. Malcolm Woodward, though, the man currently fiddling at Daddy’s desk, was smarter than most and knew better.

After just a moment’s hesitation, he broke out in a patently false smile. “Mycroft! What a pleasant—and unexpected—surprise. Your father just stepped out—he asked me to print off some information for him before I left. Why don’t you let me finish up and I’ll take you to him?” Mycroft said nothing, trying to silently urge Sherlock back out into the hallway without ever taking his eyes off of Woodward. Mycroft’s reaction told Woodward everything he needed to know. He sighed and jerked his head at the other man, standing silently to Mycroft’s right. “Close the door and move the kids into the sitting room.” The sitting room was a smaller, attached office used as a meeting space. From Woodward’s point of view, it was an ideal spot to contain his little problem—only one entrance, through the main office, and no windows.

The other man moved over, shut the door to the corridor and gestured to Mycroft, intending to escort him to the small room. His view of Sherlock had been blocked by Mycroft’s legs. Now, though, he leaned over and gave The Baby a condescending smile and reached out a demanding hand. Sherlock, of course, ignored the movement and scuttled further away, making a distressed little chirp. “Oh, come now,” boomed the man, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of voice. “What’s your name, little man? I won’t hurt you.” Sherlock tucked his head down onto his chest and looked away. The man reached out and poked his fingers under Sherlock’s chin to force his head back up, easily forestalling Mycroft’s abortive attempt to block him. Sherlock flailed, trying to break free, emitting panting little sobs. The man spoke again, giving rough little pats to Sherlock’s cheek to punctuate each word. “Now. What’s. Your. Name?” Mycroft, abruptly near tears himself, grabbed the man’s arm in desperation. “Stop! Please stop. He doesn’t… he can’t… he’s not _verbal_ yet,” he gasped.

“He doesn’t talk yet? Good Lord, he must be almost three!” barked the man in incredulous tones. Mycroft didn’t correct him—Sherlock was indeed tiny for his age, and this man assuming him more of an infant than he was might prove helpful. Just at that moment, though, Sherlock reached his limit. He grabbed hold of one of Mycroft’s legs and began to rock, over and over and over. The man stared momentarily, and then his face morphed into a contemptuous grin. “Woodward, by God. Siger Holmes’ baby boy is a _retard_!” he chortled.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were profoundly shocked by the use of That Word, Sherlock so much so that he stopped rocking and flicked furtive rapid glances back and forth between Mycroft and the nasty, laughing man. But Mycroft, ah, Mycroft. He pulled himself into that cold, calculating realm he had long since found within himself, the one of purest logic that admitted no sentiment or tender care. And he realized that they could _use_ this—let Woodward and this buffoon assume his brilliant baby brother was defective, useless, not a threat in any way. And so, to his great regret (a regret that would echo for decades, as it happened), he opened his mouth and said quietly, without a glance at Sherlock, “Yes. Yes, he is.”

He was dimly aware of Sherlock giving a tiny despairing moan before the toddler folded in upon himself, hiding his face against Mr. Bumble and huddling in a small forlorn knot on the floor. Mycroft bent over and scooped him up like an infant, and followed the horrible man into the small sitting room.

As soon as Horrible left the room (Mycroft was hoping he would close the door, but apparently he wasn’t quite as stupid as could be wished), Mycroft sat hastily in a large armchair in the corner and stroked Sherlock’s face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I had to.” Sherlock gave no indication of having heard him, simply sitting huddled in his lap, eyes tightly closed. Mycroft knew that forcing Sherlock to look up, or insisting he open his eyes, would accomplish nothing, but he desperately needed Sherlock’s attention. Glancing through the open doorway to check the positions of their captors, he angled Sherlock’s body so that his back was to the doorway. Then he picked up one tiny clenched fist, forced the fingers open, and began forming signs in Sherlock’s little palm, again and again and again.

 

 

Roughly ten minutes passed before Sherlock began to fret. Woodward had run into some sort of technical issues trying to access information on the computer system and was alternately swearing and re-reading pages of instructions he had apparently brought with him, while Horrible helped himself to the contents of the liquor cabinet in the corner. The persistent whine from Sherlock caught his attention, though. “Shut him up,” he snapped. “We don’t want someone coming to check on the noise.” Mycroft rocked Sherlock and patted his back, but neither treatment was effective and the noise was increasing. “I can’t just make him stop,” he said. “He doesn’t understand why he can’t sit in the chair.”

Horrible blinked. “What chair? What are you on about?” he blustered. “And shut him _up_!” He moved threateningly towards them, and Mycroft scuttled back into the main office to stand by Woodward. “I can’t help it,” he said, in a tearful voice, while Sherlock continued to grizzle disconsolately. He looked hopefully at Woodward. “Please. He likes to sit in Daddy’s chair. It might calm him down.”

Woodward looked at the two of them, flinching slightly as Sherlock’s noise inched up a bit higher. He shoved his pages of instructions over, stood up from the leather chair and scooted it over to the side of the desk, so that he could still access the computer. “Here,” he said roughly. “Put him down, and get him quiet.” Mycroft gave Woodward a grateful smile and deposited Sherlock in the chair, petting his curls and smoothing down his shirt. “See there, Lockie?” he crooned. “Chair.” Sherlock stopped his whining, and scooted back in the chair. Then he reached out and pushed against the edge of the desk, spinning the chair and giving a delighted giggle.

This state of affairs continued for another five minutes, while Mycroft sat in a chair watching the fish tank and Sherlock spun, over and over, occasionally bumping Woodward, who swore and moved further down the side of the desk. Suddenly, though, Sherlock stopped spinning, gave a mournful little hiccup, and vomited over the side of the chair, splashing the floor and Woodward’s trouser leg slightly before he could leap out of the way. The Baby burst immediately into howls of distress.

Mycroft hurried over and knelt in front of the chair, while Sherlock continued to wail and gag. Horrible strode over and put his hand down on Mycroft’s shoulder, painfully hard. “You make him stop that, boy, or I will,” he snarled. Mycroft stood up, guarding Sherlock with his body. “He needs water. Can I go get him some water? Please!” he panted, as Sherlock heaved again behind him, splashing more watery fluid on the floor. Horrible paused, considering it. “No,” Woodward snapped. “Remember who his father is. As soon as he leaves this room he’ll raise the alarm in a heartbeat.” Sherlock’s howling stepped up another few decibels as he worked himself into full hysterics. Horrible grimaced. “All right, then, I’ll go. I’ll bring some water back from the tearoom, and some towels to clean up this mess.” He glowered at Woodward. “You just get that fucking computer working.”

He strode over and opened the hallway door, pulling it firmly closed behind him. Woodward glared at Mycroft and spoke loudly enough to be heard over Sherlock’s continued distress. “You get that little bastard calmed down, or I’ll pour whiskey down his throat to shut him up.” Mycroft paled and crouched back down in front of Sherlock, running his palm along The Baby’s soft cheek while the toddler continued to sob. He reached back with his other hand and opened the center drawer of the desk, rummaging through for anything that might entertain Sherlock. Finding nothing, he abandoned the open drawer and looked frantically for another distraction, and his eyes landed on the very heavy crystal snow globe on the far corner of the desk. He stretched over to pick it up, in the process managing to accidentally sweep all of Woodward’s instructional paperwork on to the vomit-spattered floor.

And as Woodward swore and leaned over to grab at the papers before they were ruined, two remarkable things happened. First, Mycroft stood abruptly, the snow globe nestled firmly in his right hand, shifting his weight in a precise manner. He drew his arm back, and suddenly shouted “Sherlock, NOW!”. Then he spun, terribly quickly, and as Woodward turned his head sharply and started to rise, Mycroft crashed the heavy crystal snow globe into Woodward’s temple with the weight of his entire body leveraged into the swing. And at precisely the same time, his small, “defective” baby brother snapped off in mid-wail, leaned forward from his chair, snaked his hand into the open desk drawer and stabbed his fingers onto the panic button built into the top of the opening. As Woodward crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap, metal bars shot through the inside of the door and sirens began to hoot. The television screen on the back wall abruptly lit up and Wilfred’s alarmed face came into view. Before he could say a word, Mycroft took a deep breath and began.

“There is a man currently in the tearoom or that vicinity. He is a traitor and possibly dangerous. Six feet tall, dark brown coat, grey trousers, brown hair. Mr. Woodward is currently unconscious and trapped in the office with us. He was attempting to steal information from my father’s computer. We need to be out of this room before he wakes up.” Wilfred spoke inaudibly to two men standing behind him, who hurried out of view. Then he turned back to Mycroft. “Two men will be coming to release you momentarily. You will do whatever they ask, exactly as they ask you to do it. Is that clear, Mycroft?” Mycroft nodded, and the screen went blank.

Mycroft turned back towards the desk and momentarily had to sit on the corner as relief, and perhaps a release from terror, surged through him without warning. He had known all along that Woodward would have had few options once Mycroft recognized him, but coming up with a workable plan to keep both of them alive had required his brother’s questionable cooperation. The knowledge that his desperate idea had worked weakened his knees and brought tears to his eyes. He roused himself when he felt little hands patting his leg. Tiny, spidery fingers snaked into his palm and spelled ‘OK?”, and he gave a watery chuckle and swept Sherlock up in his arms.

 

 

 

 

Much, much later, they sat comfortably in the sitting room of the townhouse discussing the events of the day with Daddy on the speaker phone. He, of course, had been immediately notified of the attempted break-in at his office, but had been unable to break free to have a conversation with his family until the time of their normal evening call. Mummy had arrived at Daddy’s offices like an avenging angel while Mycroft was still telling the assembled members of MI6 and the Diplomatic Corps what had transpired—apparently Wilfred, that wise man, had sent an urgent message that had reached her as she was leaving her office. She swept over to where Mycroft stood, Sherlock on his hip, and grabbed both of them in a strangling grip that lasted a bit too long for Mycroft’s comfort, but was nonetheless very welcome.  

She took Sherlock and stayed silent for the remainder of the re-telling. When Mycroft reached the point at which Woodward had threatened to pour whisky down The Baby’s throat, she abruptly handed Sherlock back to his brother, strode over to the man currently held in handcuffs by two MI6 agents and attempted to drop-kick his bollocks all the way to Spain. The agents smirked and let Woodward drop back to the floor while he gagged and moaned.

Now, though, all was calm. They had come home, eaten Mycroft’s favorite dinner (a bit late, but still delicious), then bathed Sherlock and gotten him ready for bed. He and Mummy mutually agreed that tomorrow was better for enjoying his cryptography present.

Mummy sat in her comfortable rocker, listening to Mycroft tell his father all about the (potentially terrible) day. Sherlock, clad in his bee footed pajamas, sat on her lap with Mr. Bumble. One thumb had crept into his mouth while Mummy pretended not to notice. He wasn’t asleep, but it wasn’t far off.

“And Sherlock was _brilliant_!” Mycroft enthused, while Daddy made appreciative noises. “I could only tell him with sign language, so I wasn’t totally sure he understood everything. But he made himself sick by spinning on purpose, just as I asked—properly sick, all over everything.” Mycroft beamed at his brother, who smiled sleepily back. “And then he pushed the button right on time, even though he’d never seen it before.”

“I’m so proud of both of you,” Daddy said. “You both did exactly what you needed to do.”

“Even though they thought Sherlock was…” Mycroft started to say, and managed to stop himself before That Word came out of his mouth. But Sherlock sat straight up in Mummy’s lap and popped his thumb out. Then he opened his mouth, and said “They said I was a _retard_. But I’m smart,” in a sharp, crystal-clear treble. And while his family gaped, then applauded, then (on Mummy’s part) wept, Sherlock stuck his thumb back in his mouth, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

 

And Mycroft, tucked comfortably in his bed later that night with Sherlock nestled (illicitly) beside him, thought that this, despite everything, had turned out to be his best birthday after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so if I inadvertently offend anyone or leave out something important, please let me know. Comments or constructive criticism would be FABULOUS--I prefer that to crickets chirping any day of the week. I'm American--I've spent a fair amount of time in the UK, so I'm reasonably up on the differences in naming,but I haven't attempted British spellings.
> 
> One small additional note--the title is Mycroft-speak for "Happy Birthday". I suspect he was a pretty pedantic little guy even at 12.


End file.
